Ali Fishman (16)
Yellow Flowers
I only remember a few things from my childhood; cold SpaghettiOs, the feeling of a beat-up leather glove in my hand, and yellow flowers. The rest is blurry. I have no baby pictures or toys that bring me back to when I was a toddler. I remember being a teenager, but life before thirteen has never really been in focus. Everything I know, I had to remember myself.
I come from a small town in the suburbs of Oklahoma. My town was filled with nothing, and the people were split into two groups: the ones who were getting out and the ones who were staying. These two groups wanted nothing to do with each other. There was a clear, defined line that separated them. The people that wanted to leave and make something of themselves spent their entire lives clawing their way out of the hole that was this town. The other half, those with no ambition other than to sit and watch TV all day, thought that the dreamers were elitist and ungrateful.
My dad was part of the latter group. He had no dreams, which eventually got the best of him. His lack of zeal for life caused him to find friends at the bottom of the bottle. He dragged my mother down the hole with him too, leaving me with no one. I was always in the middle. I did not have a strong opinion either way. All I really wanted to do was play baseball.
There was a desolate, abandoned field behind my house. Whenever my mom forgot to do the laundry, which led to World War III, or the TV was playing too loudly for anyone to focus, I would go there. Nobody seemed to care or question when I would disappear for hours to escape to my little paradise, so I stopped consulting other people. I would just skip out on dinner or wake up before the sun and make my way to the field.
I don’t know what my parents thought I was doing during that time, but I do know they did not think it was baseball. They probably thought I was out drinking cheap beer and pulling juvenile pranks. They probably thought I was wasting my time, and I didn’t care enough to tell them I wasn’t. I built nets to place behind first base, so that I could play by myself. I crafted lights for the field after dark. I cut bases out of rubber. Instead of playing Legos, I built a field from scratch. That became my home and the place where I felt safe. The place where I felt like a kid, for the first and only time in my life. I had no family that made any effort to make me feel like that, so I built an environment where I felt secure and surrounded by love.
The love came from the little things. The feeling of the breeze on my face while sitting on the bleachers. The feeling of the gravel underneath my cleats, which I bought from Goodwill using the only money I ever received. The feeling of the abandoned glove that was left at my field wrapped around my hand. The smell of the dust in my face and the sight of the yellow flowers in the outfield.
I spent my entire childhood experiencing only this love. I never had a family outside of this field until I got to high school. It was the second week of school, and the baseball team was having tryouts. I was perfectly fine being a loner, but there was no harm in trying to extend the familiarity that baseball had brought me.
I remember when I showed up to the high school field, the cleanliness and order of everything surprised me. Even though it was a field, it could not have been more different from that home I had built for myself. The bright orange Gatorade tanks and the perfectly kept gravel. The huge shed of equipment and the pure, white baseballs. The rows of helmets, bases, and bats extended far beyond what my teenage mind thought was possible. I remember noticing every small detail in the field, analyzing the bases and the height of the grass. They were all different from what I had grown to know, but I tried to focus on the basics. The bases on each corner of the infield, the dirt that flutters around my face when I slide, and the yellow flowers in the infield.
I used these things to put myself back in my element. I remember the coach called my number. It was an infielders’ drill. Get the ball and throw it to first. I looked at the senior first baseman and replaced him with the net that I used on my field. I got the balls, one after the other, and threw them across the field. I fielded each one the same way, and each one landed in the same position. It was like a ritual, one that I had been practicing for years. With each ground ball I had flashbacks of the years I had spent on my field doing the exact same thing. The sunsets, thunderstorms, and perfect spring days. It was not until I had finished all ten grounders that I was brought back to the high school field.
I remember the feeling of my breath returning, knowing that I had not messed up. I looked up from the dirt infield to see the five coaches with stunned looks on their faces. I could tell they did not expect much from me, a scrawny kid with a name no one had heard before. The old guy with a beard, who I correctly assumed was the head coach, elbowed the guy standing to his right.
They all walked up to me, marching in a line of five, almost like a small army. My heart was pounding, and suddenly I did not know what to do with my hands. The whole prospect of these five men all talking to me at once completely and totally intimidated me. When they came up to me the guy in the middle put out his hand, a wordless invitation for me to shake it. I did, and for the second that we stood there shaking hands in the middle of the field, I felt more comfortable than I had ever been before.
The next four years were the beginning of my story. It was a true fairy tale, with the greatest of highs and the worst of lows. I spent the spring seasons breaking school and state records. I spent Friday nights playing games under the lights, with an entire town watching. My stats were unbelievable, but that is not what I remember. I remember looking up at the bleachers, and for the first time in my young life, I saw the entire town doing the same thing, both the old-time small-towners and the high schoolers waiting to break free. They all sat on the metal bleachers, under the lights, watching the game. That clear line that had always been there was starting to disappear, and the better our team got, the less defined it became.
However, the two people that I never saw at my games were my mother and father. I carried an entire team on my back and won a state championship. More than that, I carried a town. This was the first time we had ever won, and it was so much bigger than baseball.
Throughout my four years playing in that town, everything seemed brighter. My teammates introduced me to a world with family. Their parents treated me as their own, making sure I had food every night. The coaches drove me home from practices and came to all my school events. Everyone wanted to distract me from the fact that my parents were nowhere to be found. People who I had never met were giving me more love than anything I had experienced before. The more successful I became, the thicker the wall between my parents and I grew.
One night, in the last month of my senior season, I got a call. I answered it, completely oblivious to the fact that it would permanently alter the course of my life. It was a man by the name of John Waters. He was the General Manager of the Yankees, and he represented a dream so unfathomable that I did not even let myself think about it. I just sat there in silence, while he expressed interest in me joining the team out of high school.
My heart stopped. At that time, I was not even recruited to a college, and I didn’t have the money to try to get noticed. I always planned to stop my baseball career in high school. I didn’t even go to the combine. I was not invited. My skill was arbitrary because no one knew who I was, or at least I thought it was.
He told me that they would need me in New York City by June 15 at the latest, which was only a month away. He also said that they would provide a place to stay and food. I noticed how he said the last part in a nonchalant way, so as not to make me feel embarrassed. He must have known that I could not afford it otherwise.
After the phone call, the life I had imagined for myself disappeared. The town that I had accepted would be my home forever was suddenly a simple launching pad. The grocery store, where I assumed I would work, was no longer a reminder of my future. For the first time in my life, I let myself hope for something bigger. Something outside of this town.
That night, when I got home, the best day of my life turned into an unbearable night. My dad had run out of liquor and wanted me to drive him to the store. He had his license revoked years before. With my newfound sense of confidence, I refused. The glimmer of light in his eyes that reminded me he was my dad disappeared. I saw him release the empty bottle, and I dove for the floor. The sound of shattering glass was branded into my bones. Then I pushed myself off the ground and bolted for the door.
My dad had hit me for years, but it was nothing like that. This removed the last sense of home that I felt. I found myself wandering the streets until I decided that I needed to get out. I needed to escape, and before I knew it I was at my coach’s house. I saw blood on my hand, so I just assumed some of the glass had scratched my hand. When my coach answered the door, a look of immediate pity flashed across his face.
No words were exchanged. He just propped the door open and invited me inside. We sat in the living room for seemingly endless minutes. He didn’t ask what happened, either because he knew I did not want to talk about it or because he did not want to know. However, I soon broke, and the details of my dark reality came pouring out. I told him about my parents and how they yell and beat. I told him that they think I am a failure and that they don’t know that I play baseball. Then I told him about the call from the Yankees, how my dream could come true if I could ever get out of this town.
After I finished, the seemingly eternal silence lingered. He then stood up and went upstairs. My mind raced, wondering if he was calling my parents or the police, but he was soon back standing next to me. In his hands, he held money and an old phone. His eyes darted around the room, trying to observe every detail except for me.
Finally the silence was broken when he said, “Take this and go. Go to New York. They will put you up there. Just get out here and follow your dream.” He still did not look at me.
The crumpled-up money was just enough for a plane ride out of town, and I knew he was right. I knew the Yankees would put me up in New York, but there was still a part of me tied to this place. That part of me tied me to baseball, to coach. My heart could not bear to say goodbye to him, but I knew I had to. I knew I could not go home.
We just stood there, both knowing whatever words we shared would be insignificant. Finally, not knowing what else to do, I fell into his arms, hugging him with whatever love I had left in my body. I hoped that this said all that my words could not. I hoped that it said how much I loved and how much I owed him, because I do, to this day, owe him everything. The hug lasted for only a minute, but from the way he hugged me back, I knew he understood what I was trying to say.
With the money and phone, I turned to the door, reluctantly leaving Coach behind. I had just placed my hand on the gold doorknob when he said, “I am still here. I will be watching you all the time.” He then pointed to the small TV in the corner of his living room. I opened the door, allowing the scent of fresh air and trees to consume me. As I walked away from that house, I hoped that I had not just seen his face for the last time.
Then I bought a plane ticket to New York, for a flight that left at 5:15 in the morning. That meant I had six hours to kill and nowhere to go, so I went to the only home I had ever known. I sat down on the field that I had made so many years ago. The bases and nets, they were all built from scratch. I walked around the dirt with my shoes off, forcing my feet to memorize every detail of the ground. I made myself remember my life here. I went out to the grass and fell to my knees, eventually lying on my back. My body was enveloped by the familiarity of this place.
I laid still, preparing to leave the only reliable love I had ever known, preparing to say a permanent goodbye to any reminiscence of my childhood. I was never coming back, and I knew that then. I was never going to see my parents, my coach, my teammates, or this field again. It was all too painful. They were reminders of a childhood without color or fantasy. A childhood without baby pictures or toys. A childhood without love.
Then I stood up and said goodbye to the place that made me feel like I belonged. I bent down and picked up my few possessions. The phone and money coach had given me, the beat-up leather glove I had been using my entire life, and a little souvenir from the field.
Before I knew it, I was at the small, pathetic airport. I had taken a bus to get there, but I honestly remember very little from that ride. I made my way through the desolate halls and arrived at the plane taking me to JFK. I found myself in a small, leather seat, realizing that this was the first of many planes I would take in my life. Once the wheels started moving, I said a silent goodbye to this world I had known.
As we drifted away, going closer the clouds, I took out the souvenir I claimed for my field. I wanted to leave it fairly untouched so that the next little kid who needs a place to have fun or a loving home would be able to use it. But, I did take this one thing for myself.
I put it up to my nose and took a deep breath. A small yellow flower that will always remind me of my home.
Ali Fishman is a sophomore at San Francisco University High School. In addition to writing, she loves photography, reading, volleyball, basketball, and softball, which have played extremely important roles in her life. Her short story “Thoughts and Prayers” was published earlier this year in Canvas Literary Journal.
Yellow Flowers
I only remember a few things from my childhood; cold SpaghettiOs, the feeling of a beat-up leather glove in my hand, and yellow flowers. The rest is blurry. I have no baby pictures or toys that bring me back to when I was a toddler. I remember being a teenager, but life before thirteen has never really been in focus. Everything I know, I had to remember myself.
I come from a small town in the suburbs of Oklahoma. My town was filled with nothing, and the people were split into two groups: the ones who were getting out and the ones who were staying. These two groups wanted nothing to do with each other. There was a clear, defined line that separated them. The people that wanted to leave and make something of themselves spent their entire lives clawing their way out of the hole that was this town. The other half, those with no ambition other than to sit and watch TV all day, thought that the dreamers were elitist and ungrateful.
My dad was part of the latter group. He had no dreams, which eventually got the best of him. His lack of zeal for life caused him to find friends at the bottom of the bottle. He dragged my mother down the hole with him too, leaving me with no one. I was always in the middle. I did not have a strong opinion either way. All I really wanted to do was play baseball.
There was a desolate, abandoned field behind my house. Whenever my mom forgot to do the laundry, which led to World War III, or the TV was playing too loudly for anyone to focus, I would go there. Nobody seemed to care or question when I would disappear for hours to escape to my little paradise, so I stopped consulting other people. I would just skip out on dinner or wake up before the sun and make my way to the field.
I don’t know what my parents thought I was doing during that time, but I do know they did not think it was baseball. They probably thought I was out drinking cheap beer and pulling juvenile pranks. They probably thought I was wasting my time, and I didn’t care enough to tell them I wasn’t. I built nets to place behind first base, so that I could play by myself. I crafted lights for the field after dark. I cut bases out of rubber. Instead of playing Legos, I built a field from scratch. That became my home and the place where I felt safe. The place where I felt like a kid, for the first and only time in my life. I had no family that made any effort to make me feel like that, so I built an environment where I felt secure and surrounded by love.
The love came from the little things. The feeling of the breeze on my face while sitting on the bleachers. The feeling of the gravel underneath my cleats, which I bought from Goodwill using the only money I ever received. The feeling of the abandoned glove that was left at my field wrapped around my hand. The smell of the dust in my face and the sight of the yellow flowers in the outfield.
I spent my entire childhood experiencing only this love. I never had a family outside of this field until I got to high school. It was the second week of school, and the baseball team was having tryouts. I was perfectly fine being a loner, but there was no harm in trying to extend the familiarity that baseball had brought me.
I remember when I showed up to the high school field, the cleanliness and order of everything surprised me. Even though it was a field, it could not have been more different from that home I had built for myself. The bright orange Gatorade tanks and the perfectly kept gravel. The huge shed of equipment and the pure, white baseballs. The rows of helmets, bases, and bats extended far beyond what my teenage mind thought was possible. I remember noticing every small detail in the field, analyzing the bases and the height of the grass. They were all different from what I had grown to know, but I tried to focus on the basics. The bases on each corner of the infield, the dirt that flutters around my face when I slide, and the yellow flowers in the infield.
I used these things to put myself back in my element. I remember the coach called my number. It was an infielders’ drill. Get the ball and throw it to first. I looked at the senior first baseman and replaced him with the net that I used on my field. I got the balls, one after the other, and threw them across the field. I fielded each one the same way, and each one landed in the same position. It was like a ritual, one that I had been practicing for years. With each ground ball I had flashbacks of the years I had spent on my field doing the exact same thing. The sunsets, thunderstorms, and perfect spring days. It was not until I had finished all ten grounders that I was brought back to the high school field.
I remember the feeling of my breath returning, knowing that I had not messed up. I looked up from the dirt infield to see the five coaches with stunned looks on their faces. I could tell they did not expect much from me, a scrawny kid with a name no one had heard before. The old guy with a beard, who I correctly assumed was the head coach, elbowed the guy standing to his right.
They all walked up to me, marching in a line of five, almost like a small army. My heart was pounding, and suddenly I did not know what to do with my hands. The whole prospect of these five men all talking to me at once completely and totally intimidated me. When they came up to me the guy in the middle put out his hand, a wordless invitation for me to shake it. I did, and for the second that we stood there shaking hands in the middle of the field, I felt more comfortable than I had ever been before.
The next four years were the beginning of my story. It was a true fairy tale, with the greatest of highs and the worst of lows. I spent the spring seasons breaking school and state records. I spent Friday nights playing games under the lights, with an entire town watching. My stats were unbelievable, but that is not what I remember. I remember looking up at the bleachers, and for the first time in my young life, I saw the entire town doing the same thing, both the old-time small-towners and the high schoolers waiting to break free. They all sat on the metal bleachers, under the lights, watching the game. That clear line that had always been there was starting to disappear, and the better our team got, the less defined it became.
However, the two people that I never saw at my games were my mother and father. I carried an entire team on my back and won a state championship. More than that, I carried a town. This was the first time we had ever won, and it was so much bigger than baseball.
Throughout my four years playing in that town, everything seemed brighter. My teammates introduced me to a world with family. Their parents treated me as their own, making sure I had food every night. The coaches drove me home from practices and came to all my school events. Everyone wanted to distract me from the fact that my parents were nowhere to be found. People who I had never met were giving me more love than anything I had experienced before. The more successful I became, the thicker the wall between my parents and I grew.
One night, in the last month of my senior season, I got a call. I answered it, completely oblivious to the fact that it would permanently alter the course of my life. It was a man by the name of John Waters. He was the General Manager of the Yankees, and he represented a dream so unfathomable that I did not even let myself think about it. I just sat there in silence, while he expressed interest in me joining the team out of high school.
My heart stopped. At that time, I was not even recruited to a college, and I didn’t have the money to try to get noticed. I always planned to stop my baseball career in high school. I didn’t even go to the combine. I was not invited. My skill was arbitrary because no one knew who I was, or at least I thought it was.
He told me that they would need me in New York City by June 15 at the latest, which was only a month away. He also said that they would provide a place to stay and food. I noticed how he said the last part in a nonchalant way, so as not to make me feel embarrassed. He must have known that I could not afford it otherwise.
After the phone call, the life I had imagined for myself disappeared. The town that I had accepted would be my home forever was suddenly a simple launching pad. The grocery store, where I assumed I would work, was no longer a reminder of my future. For the first time in my life, I let myself hope for something bigger. Something outside of this town.
That night, when I got home, the best day of my life turned into an unbearable night. My dad had run out of liquor and wanted me to drive him to the store. He had his license revoked years before. With my newfound sense of confidence, I refused. The glimmer of light in his eyes that reminded me he was my dad disappeared. I saw him release the empty bottle, and I dove for the floor. The sound of shattering glass was branded into my bones. Then I pushed myself off the ground and bolted for the door.
My dad had hit me for years, but it was nothing like that. This removed the last sense of home that I felt. I found myself wandering the streets until I decided that I needed to get out. I needed to escape, and before I knew it I was at my coach’s house. I saw blood on my hand, so I just assumed some of the glass had scratched my hand. When my coach answered the door, a look of immediate pity flashed across his face.
No words were exchanged. He just propped the door open and invited me inside. We sat in the living room for seemingly endless minutes. He didn’t ask what happened, either because he knew I did not want to talk about it or because he did not want to know. However, I soon broke, and the details of my dark reality came pouring out. I told him about my parents and how they yell and beat. I told him that they think I am a failure and that they don’t know that I play baseball. Then I told him about the call from the Yankees, how my dream could come true if I could ever get out of this town.
After I finished, the seemingly eternal silence lingered. He then stood up and went upstairs. My mind raced, wondering if he was calling my parents or the police, but he was soon back standing next to me. In his hands, he held money and an old phone. His eyes darted around the room, trying to observe every detail except for me.
Finally the silence was broken when he said, “Take this and go. Go to New York. They will put you up there. Just get out here and follow your dream.” He still did not look at me.
The crumpled-up money was just enough for a plane ride out of town, and I knew he was right. I knew the Yankees would put me up in New York, but there was still a part of me tied to this place. That part of me tied me to baseball, to coach. My heart could not bear to say goodbye to him, but I knew I had to. I knew I could not go home.
We just stood there, both knowing whatever words we shared would be insignificant. Finally, not knowing what else to do, I fell into his arms, hugging him with whatever love I had left in my body. I hoped that this said all that my words could not. I hoped that it said how much I loved and how much I owed him, because I do, to this day, owe him everything. The hug lasted for only a minute, but from the way he hugged me back, I knew he understood what I was trying to say.
With the money and phone, I turned to the door, reluctantly leaving Coach behind. I had just placed my hand on the gold doorknob when he said, “I am still here. I will be watching you all the time.” He then pointed to the small TV in the corner of his living room. I opened the door, allowing the scent of fresh air and trees to consume me. As I walked away from that house, I hoped that I had not just seen his face for the last time.
Then I bought a plane ticket to New York, for a flight that left at 5:15 in the morning. That meant I had six hours to kill and nowhere to go, so I went to the only home I had ever known. I sat down on the field that I had made so many years ago. The bases and nets, they were all built from scratch. I walked around the dirt with my shoes off, forcing my feet to memorize every detail of the ground. I made myself remember my life here. I went out to the grass and fell to my knees, eventually lying on my back. My body was enveloped by the familiarity of this place.
I laid still, preparing to leave the only reliable love I had ever known, preparing to say a permanent goodbye to any reminiscence of my childhood. I was never coming back, and I knew that then. I was never going to see my parents, my coach, my teammates, or this field again. It was all too painful. They were reminders of a childhood without color or fantasy. A childhood without baby pictures or toys. A childhood without love.
Then I stood up and said goodbye to the place that made me feel like I belonged. I bent down and picked up my few possessions. The phone and money coach had given me, the beat-up leather glove I had been using my entire life, and a little souvenir from the field.
Before I knew it, I was at the small, pathetic airport. I had taken a bus to get there, but I honestly remember very little from that ride. I made my way through the desolate halls and arrived at the plane taking me to JFK. I found myself in a small, leather seat, realizing that this was the first of many planes I would take in my life. Once the wheels started moving, I said a silent goodbye to this world I had known.
As we drifted away, going closer the clouds, I took out the souvenir I claimed for my field. I wanted to leave it fairly untouched so that the next little kid who needs a place to have fun or a loving home would be able to use it. But, I did take this one thing for myself.
I put it up to my nose and took a deep breath. A small yellow flower that will always remind me of my home.
Ali Fishman is a sophomore at San Francisco University High School. In addition to writing, she loves photography, reading, volleyball, basketball, and softball, which have played extremely important roles in her life. Her short story “Thoughts and Prayers” was published earlier this year in Canvas Literary Journal.